The Cannibal's Daughter
by Dr. Amelia Rinaldi MD
Summary: Hannibal's daughters are coming of age, one despises what her parents are, and the other seems determined to embrace her heritage. What happens when a sixteen year old becomes a cold blooded killer? Reviews are wonderously appreciated.
1. Death Becomes Her

_Can we say 'Teaser' dear ones? Posted at Saavik's request, the next in the Emily series. I don't plan to really work hard on it until the Clarice fic is done, so don't expect anything soon. The normal disclaimers apply: the Good Doctor, no matter how hard I wish, is not mine, but property of Thomas Harris. I do lay claim to Emily, Alessandra, and Mischa. Do enjoy._

The wicked blade felt heavy in her palm as she looked dispassionately at the blonde girl now laying, unmoving, on the floor of the backseat of the SUV. Blood was everywhere, bright arterial sprays that decorated the seat and windows, one arc stretching across the ceiling. She brushed absently at a streak across her own face as she knelt, leaning over the driver's seat. Turning her head, she could see herself in the rearview mirror. Her eyes weren't the color that had struck fear into so many people, but they glowed eerily in the darkness nonetheless. Her pale face seemed to float above the dark interior and the dark clothes she wore. Leaning over the seat she wipes the knifes blade on the girls shirt, then snaps it shut. The closed blade slides into her sleeve and she reaches for the door handle. The interior light has been shut off and the door sensors disabled, ensuring that an annoying _ding_ won't give her away. The slight drop from door to ground, and she closes the door behind her. Quickly and silently she takes off to the woods that surround the old access road, abandoning the girl's body and her fancy SUV in the ruts. 

It surprises her that she really doesn't feel anything now that she's done the deed. None of the screaming guilt she was expecting, nor any of the excitement or gratification the books said killers felt. Nothing, just a sense that the job was done, and she wouldn't have to worry about rumors anymore. That brought a cold smile to her lips as she jogged through the trees. The terrain went easily beneath her feet, even in the darkness, partially from years of cross country running. One never knew what training in her life would become handy. An hour later she emerged on a path that wound its way thinly through the forest. She took it and continued at her steady pace, the thoughts of the girl's screams fading behind her as the distance between her and the body increased. She slowed slightly as she crested the hill, almost pausing to look down at the house that sat before her. Her momentum carried her down the hill, past the lake and the little dock. 

Twenty five minutes later she is quickly losing ground to sleep as she curls in her bed. A beagle is curled tightly at the foot of the bed, snoring lightly and providing counterpoint to her quietly deepening breaths. Within minutes she is lost to her subconscious and is unaware of the figure standing in shadow at her door, watching as his child sleeps. His fingers brush the knife left on the dresser, still warm from being pressed close to her body. Crossing the space between door and bed he leans to brush a few tendrils of hair from her face, inhaling her scent. It is there, and he knows what she has done. It is of little surprise, especially if one takes the time to consider her origins. Bending further, he brushes a kiss against her cheek, and she stirs ever so slightly. His hand finds hers, gripping it lightly before leaving the room and returning to lay beside his wife. 

*****


	2. Home for the Holidays

One Month Earlier

"Where's your sister? I thought you two were supposed to be on the same flight?" the woman known as Dr. Amelia Rinaldi hugged her daughter as she met her by the baggage claim in the Montpelier airport. The slight fifteen year old sighed as she returned the gesture. She was the unlucky bearer of bad news.

"Don't shoot the messenger, Mom, but Mischa decided to go to Boston with her boyfriend, to meet his family." 

"You're kidding, right?" it was a pointless question. Alessandra Nicolette Rinaldi shook her head as she grabbed a large suitcase off the carousel. A couple other passengers by her stared as the slim girl hauled the case out of the crowd, pausing by her mother to extend the pull handle from it. Her eyes, pale grey blue, the color of ocean water, met her mother's as she grabbed her backpack and swung it over her shoulders.

"Mom, I never kid. But, if its any consolation, Misch had assured me that she had told you and Dad. So, she lied to everyone in the family." she tugged on the suitcase, heading for the exit doors. Amelia was shaking her head as she kept up with her daughter. "Quite rude, actually." Alessandra added, almost as an afterthought as they walked. 

"Don't even start on it. I'll have to hear enough of it from your father when we get home. He's not going to be pleased by this."

"Well, duh." came the flippant reply. Alessandra may have been brought up with the best of everything, but she was still a teenager. For all the times she seemed more than mature for her age, it was the little things that reminded one that she was fifteen and not thirty. "Where is Daddy, anyway? Why didn't he come in to meet me?"

Her mother sighed, scanning over the parking lot and the cars that were circling through it, either waiting for a passenger or looking for a spot. A sleek black Jaguar came into view and she lifted a hand to wave. "He's waiting in the car for us. Didn't want to risk security again. Remember Spring Break?"

Alessandra nodded and followed her mother. Even after all these years, the FBI was still looking for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, now going by Dr. Antonio Rinaldi. It had been a fluke, and some guy stuck at the security checkpoint thought he had recognized her father, and had called in the security manager. Allie was amazed at how quickly her father could disappear at that point, taking her in tow. Her mother had been at home, and wasn't thrilled by the story when she heard it. Instead of having fun on her Spring Break and taking the driving lessons she had been promised, Allie had spent two weeks in the house, having to entertain herself with whatever happened to be around. She wasn't upset, well, except for the loss of the driving lessons, but it hadn't been her father's fault. That had also brought around another argument, mainly from her mother.

As they walked across the parking lot to the Jaguar, Allie looked at her hand. Slim, shapely, and different. The middle finger was perfectly replicated, the rarest form of polydactyly. Just like her father's hand. It could have been worse, she supposed, if she had inherited her father's other identifying trait as well. Fortunately, she had her mother's eyes, and Misch had gotten the maroon orbs. But for the most part, Alessandra strongly resembled her father, taking her coloring from him, as well as her build. The argument had been for her to have the finger removed, but that would involve surgery and hospitals. Her mother had declined to have it done when she was an infant, even though the doctors had offered. Her father had overthrown the idea now, since it would be best for them to avoid the hospitals at all costs. Besides, who would think that he, 'Hannibal the Cannibal', had fathered a little girl, let alone two. Allie hadn't wanted to do it since it involved needles and surgery, that, and having to later explain it when she arrived back at school. Her mother had sighed, knowing that dealing with two of the most stubborn people on Earth was going to get her nowhere fast. She had finally conceded that it was Allie's decision, and that was that.

The trunk rose easily as the women approached the car, and Allie took the suitcase to the end of the car, her mother reaching out to help her with the obviously weighty case. It was in the trunk before she could do anything. Something else that marked Alessandra as Hannibal's daughter, her incredible strength. She smiled at her mother and dropped the backpack into the car before heading over to the rear door on the driver's side. She slipped in and closed the door before leaning over the back of the seat to give her father a hug and a peck on the cheek.

"Hi Daddy." she received a smile in the rearview mirror, and she was scared by how old her father looked compared to herself. Compared to Mom even. 

"Welcome home, Alessandra. Did you have a good flight?" came the reply, in that quiet, metallic voice. She settled back into the comfortable leather seat and tugged the shoulder belt over her body.

"Yes. There was a little turbulence coming in, but it was okay." the end of the sentence was punctuated by the metal _click_ of the seatbelt. Nodding her father put the Jag into gear and they pulled from the parking lot. The ride home was in silence, and Allie wasn't completely surprised by the lack of questioning on her father's part. It probably meant that she would get to play the less exciting version of 'Twenty Questions' when she got home, excepting the obligatory 'Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral' question. She leaned her head back in the seat, closing her eyes for the long journey home, fingers on her thigh tapping out the rhythm to the tango that was quiet on the speakers.

*****

The next day was cold, the late fall wind pushing through the trees and making the old farmhouse shudder. She had braved the inclement weather for a run this morning, Mother accompanying her. Now she was in the kitchen, preparing ingredients for the stuffing for the turkey. The frozen bird itself was sitting in the sink, thawing out. Allie had no doubt that her mother would despair as always the next morning when the turkey hadn't entirely thawed and she had to fight to get the giblets bag out of it. She had broken two forks doing it the year before, along with a serving spoon. 

She felt her thoughts drifting as she went about chopping fresh herbs from the windowsill pots for the stuffing for the turkey tomorrow. The clean, fresh scents filled the air in the warm kitchen as she worked, the sharp knife rocking back and forth in rapid movement on the cutting board. It was nice to be home, where she fit in, where she was appreciated. She began humming random songs as she worked at the task, carefully putting the freshly minced herbs in Baggies for her mother to use the next day. A check on the turkey as she rinsed the board, as if it would get up and run away. The thought of the dead bird hopping out of the sink and running off on its footless legs was extraordinarily amusing at that moment.

She was sitting in the stool at the edge of the kitchen as her giggles for a moment before standing again. A glance at the bird once again resurrected the giggles as she pulled celery from the fridge. She took a couple stalks and grabbed a jar of peanut butter from cabinet, preparing herself something to munch on while she worked. Crunching on celery, humming Don Henley tunes, Allie didn't notice her father come into the kitchen and take up residence on the stool at the edge of the kitchen. She was oblivious to the eyes watching her as she chopped celery on the cutting board, pausing every now and again to clear to board and scoop some peanut butter out of the jar with either her fingers or the celery she had set aside. If she had thought her mind was wandering before, it only grew worse now. Her father's interest grew as her body language grew more agitated.

The knife increased its speed and intensity as it cut through the celery stalks on the board. Allie could feel her shoulders tense as she remembered what had happened at school before everyone left for winter break. She glared into empty space as she continued with her chore, the image of Dorothy Haws coming before her eyes. A low growl rose in Allie's throat as she thought about the girl, about what she had done to her. She didn't hear the stool scrape against the old slate floor as her father rose, approaching her. She didn't hear anything beyond the echoes of the rumors that had been spread around school about her. Her breath came quicker and she exerted more force on the knife, scoring the cutting board. Without looking, she too another stalk of celery from the pile and set it none too gently on the board. The knife met its intended target the first three cuts, but as Allie came down for the fourth she met resistance. 

It took her a moment before she realized what she had done. Another long moment after that before pain welled through her hand and blood edged the wound. She still hadn't reacted when she felt the knife being taken from her hand and sat aside. The same hand that had taken the knife now took the injured hand, wrapping it in a clean dish towel. Allie silently met the eyes of her father who was now releasing the hand and stepping away. Allie feared for a moment that he was upset, and that she would have to go to the hospital. Fortunately for her, as she watched Hannibal take a key ring from the rack by the back door, her parents had put some forethought into this.

Allie followed at her father's command as he led her through the house to the front door. She shivered as they stepped into the late afternoon chill. She wore a tee shirt and jeans, along with the pale blue apron that had her initials embroidered in the top left corner. She trotted along behind her father, who seemed completely untouched by the cold. Soon they were inside once again, although it was not much warmer inside the carriage house. Hannibal moved silently through the outer office of what had once been Allie's grandfather's medical practice turning on lights and unlocking another door. Allie had never been in here and looked at the old furniture, the smell of age and must. She followed her father through a swinging door into another room, and automatically seated herself at a table in the corner as he went through pulling items from glass fronted cabinets. 

As soon as he and Emily had made the decision to move back here, the first thing they had done was to make sure the old office was stocked once again. It was a wise move, and as they were both MDs, they could easily patch up most of the scrapes their two daughters might inflict upon themselves. Now was the first time he would have to put their preparedness to the test. By the time he had moved his family in here, Mischa had progressed beyond her tree climbing stage and was now more interested in boys and cars than trees. Alessandra had been the perfect little lady, never doing anything that would get her into a mess or ruin her clothes. The two together though had been a nightmare at times. Mischa was the mastermind behind their plans while Alessandra had carried them out. Quite a team, his daughters were. Memories brought a smile to his face as he approached the table where his daughter sat, waiting, peering at the rapidly blooming crimson on the dish towel. She made nary a sound as he went about inspecting the cut and cleaning it. She squinched her eyes tightly shut and turned away as he injected anesthetic into her hand, between her fingers. Allie hated needles with a passion and she refused to look back until she heard the syringe tap quietly on the table as he father set it down. His fingers were nimble and deft as he stitched her wound. It didn't take long before he was up again, retrieving a splint from the cabinet and disposing of his materials and returning to her.

"Is there something you wish to tell me, Alessandra?" he asked, bending the padded splint to fit over her finger. She met his eyes momentarily before looking away guiltily. He fitted the splint over her finger and reached for a spool of medical tape. "I'd rather not play 'Twenty Questions', Alessandra." He cut a long strip from the spool and took her splinted finger in his hands gently. Oddly, he hadn't noticed it before, but her hands were an icy cold. She looked back, an odd, vaguely familiar expression on her face.

"There's a girl at school, Dorothy, she's been spreading rumors about me." her voice was quiet, and she was watching her hands intently.

"Mmmmm. That is rather rude, but it is in the nature of young girls to do such things to each other, you should know that."

"I do know that." came the reply, an edge creeping into her voice. Of all the qualities his daughter had seemed to inherit from Emily, the temper and attitude had seemed the most prevalent. He finished wrapping the finger and released it.

"Are you cold, Alessandra?" her reply was a swift shake of the head, he was reaching for a small space heater that sat close to the table and stopped.

"Why?"

He sat straight, watching her. She was examining the finger as she had replied. "You're hands are like ice, dear."

She blinked as she flexed her fingers. "Oh." she shrugged and went back to the discussion of Miss Haws. "She says I'm not good enough to be a student at the academy, Daddy. She says I only got in because of favors and threats made against the headmistress." her mouth was drawn into a pout for a quick moment, then it set grimly and her face became hard. Her eyes were like chips of marble, unyielding as she met her father's eyes. It resurrected memories of the look Emily had given him before she had attacked him. That was so long ago, and he had never expected to feel the uncertainty that had accompanied that moment flood through him again. It was all Hannibal could do to not reach up to touch the old scar through the cotton of his shirt. 

"Alessandra…" she didn't react as her name was spoken, and he knew she had retreated into her own memory palace at that moment. Both girls had been instructed in how to build them, but Allie had taken to those lessons more eagerly and easily than Mischa. Hannibal had no idea as to what lay inside his daughter's mind, did not know that she was standing on the old access road that Ardelia Mapp had driven up while commencing the attack on this residence. It was a long moment before his daughter blinked and her eyes returned to something resembling normal. Her face also relaxed slightly, but remained set. For all he didn't know, he did know that she was considering an option that would change her life forever.

"Don't, Alessandra. It is not a solution to the problem." he cautioned her, and she cocked her head to the side, an eerie imitation of himself. Her lips were curving into a smile that chilled him. It was like looking into a mirror, the way she had come to imitate his own gestures. Allie did not reply, only rose from her chair and came to his side of the table. Wrapping her arms around him and hugging him, placing a kiss on his cheek before releasing him.

"Thank you." she turned and headed for the door. Hannibal did not move until he heard the outer door close. Slowly, he rose and went to the window on the far side of the room to look out on the house. Hannibal Lecter was not one to feel fear, but he felt something close as he knew that his daughter was seriously considering that option. An outsider who knew what he and Emily had done, what they were, would point out that it was inevitable that one of the children would come to this point. Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep and wondering if he could do anything to stop it. He was at a lack, much as he had been with Emily when she had turned that corner. Alessandra was too young, too innocent, still too much his little girl to do something like this. She was gone from view, no doubt inside the house, when he opened his eyes once more. Turning off lights and locking cabinets and doors once again, Hannibal left the carriage house, wondering what steps he and Emily could take to prevent what might end in death.

*****

Allie sat on her bed now, having slipped upstairs without disturbing her mother. She held a small white box in her lap, fingers running along the edges. It was odd, having no feeling in her left hand. The lid of the box was carefully removed to reveal an object wrapped carefully in bubblewrap. She drew it out, holding it in her left hand while the right tugged at the tape on the wrap. It was quickly loosed and she unwrapped her prize. The knife felt heavy in her hands, and she stared at it, taking small breaths. Her father had had one of these, when he had returned to the States on 1998. A practiced hand flicked the blade open, exposing a very wicked looking blade. A Spyderco Civilian, something not as well known as the Harpy that her father was known for. She had seen the websites that worshipped her father, and all of them referred to the Harpy. She liked the Civilian though, more for the shock value of the knife. She was sure that it would only take the image of this knife being drawn and laid against Dorothy's cheek to convince the girl to stop the rumors. Allie closed the blade after a few moments more and re-wrapped it in the bubblewrap. Once returned to the box, the box was once more tucked away behind the left speaker on her stereo shelf. Allie hummed to herself as she left her room, smiling at her father as she came down the stairs, ignoring the watchful stare from him as she returned to the kitchen to clean up her mess.

*****


	3. A Glimpse of Childhood

Thirteen Years Earlier

Storm clouds built over the ocean, slipping slowly over the mountains edging either side of the Gate. Tourists quickly made their way off the bridge as the late afternoon sky darkened, harkening the rain. What were once fairly calm waters in the Bay grew into rough, white capped swells as the wind pushed in from the northwest. The rain came quickly after that, drenching the city. Tourists and locals alike throughout the streets of China town made mad dashes to the sanctuaries offered by the numerous shops in the bustling neighborhood. The merchants took full advantage of the situation presented them, happily and eagerly pressing their wares on the storm forced clientele. Amongst the noisy tourists a quiet family of four works its way through the sudden crowds. 

Two girls, ages four and nine, chaperoned by their parents. The mother tends to keep a hand on the girls' shoulders, guiding them through the throng. She seems slightly more at ease in the crowd than her husband. His eyes are constantly moving as they walk, watching everyone and everything. If one watches very closely, which would earn one a penetrating glare, one would note that the father seems to scent the air every few meters. An animal, watchful and wary of danger. Ready to react and protect his brood at a moment's notice.

His physical appearance affects one as much as his aura does. Small and slim, elegantly conservative in his movements. He portrays confidence from his gracefully silvering hair to the well tailored lines of his silk suit. His carriage and posture lead the observer to think that he is taller than he is, and more than he first appears to be. An observer would be correct in the second thought, as there is more than meets the eye to this man. His daughters carry those same traits in them, even at their young age. They also have their mother's easy comfort in the crowd. 

She is of equal height with her husband, blonde hair caught back in a barrette, just brushing her shoulders. She carries herself proudly and regally, following behind her children, husband at her side. The older daughter is a near replica of what her mother would have looked like in her youth. It is delightful to see what the daughter will someday grow into. The younger daughter is dark haired with pale skin, like her father. She seems almost fairie like in her appearance. She keeps her left arm tight against her side, the left hand hidden from casual view. Her eyes are as pale as her face, a watery grey blue almost a tinge of that of the ocean. The same coloring as her mother, one notices on a second glance. The eyes on both girls are the only things that keep them from being perfect replicas of their parents. The older daughter's eyes are a startling color. 

Unconsciously, the first image that would come to mind upon seeing those eyes would be that of the known sociopath, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. The same glowing, eerie maroon that struck fear into many a FBI agent. Perhaps it would be less startling, perhaps more so, if one knew she had inherited those eyes directly from the sociopath himself.

There is sudden movement from the little dark haired girl. Her braid swings across her shoulder blades as her head snaps up towards her mother. Within moments, the family moves towards a counter, and directions to the shop's restrooms are acquired. The little girl listens intently, then pushes her way into the crowd. She is kept in her father's watchful stare until she reaches the door leading to a back hallway. The eyes then remain on the door as it swings shut behind her, obscuring her from view. His elder daughter has taken her sister's absence as permission to direct her mother's attention to the jewelry display in the glass counter before them. She is pointing eagerly at something as her father detaches his attention from the door. A gaudy beaded necklace is the object of her desires at the moment. Jet beads interspersed ever three with tiger's eye. 

Her father's forehead creases as memories, both good and bad, sad and joyous, surface and worm their way through his mind. Echoes crack through the hallways in his memory, and he finds himself in her room once again. There, on the wall, secure under a glass case, the source of the memories sits. His wife has noticed his discomfiture and has reached out to him, light fingers running the length of his sleeve. She understands the significance of the necklace, and eases their daughter away from it, eyeing even gaudier jewelry on the other side of the case. He stands alone before the counter, looking down at the necklace. He brings his sleek head up sharply, catching the eyes of a clerk. He motions to the piece, and the clerk readily removes it from the case and lays it atop the counter for him. A sharp nod, and the purchase is made. 

The beads slide through his fingers, a faint clicking like rosary beads ass they slide. Not quite as tacky as the add-a-beads he was reminded of, but still not of the level of jewelry he was accustomed to buying. The beads are slipped into a jacket pocket and he looked to his wife and elder daughter, then back to the closed door his younger daughter had gone through. Long minutes had passed since the child had passed through that door and on to the restroom. She was probably having trouble with the tights and the dress she had insisted on wearing. Perhaps he should ask his wife to go in and check on her. No, even as young as she was, his daughter would find it demeaning that Mommy and Daddy didn't trust her to do things like that on her own. That brought a smile to his face as he eased over to join his wife. No, a few extra minutes in the bathroom were not enough to cause worry and panic. 

*****

Her name was, in full, Alessandra Nicolette Rinaldi, and she would officially be four and a half years old in two months. But currently, young Miss Rinaldi was four years old, dressed in a pale pink sundress, the matching hat to which lay on the backseat of Daddy's car. The white tights that covered her legs came to a stop in pink jelly sandals with sparkles. She stretched, standing on tiptoe, to reach the sink. A small frown crossed her pink lips as she found she could not reach the soap dispenser. No matter, she could make do without the soap, if Mommy or Daddy asked, she would tell them that she had used the soap. As she rubbed her hands together under the water she hoped it would be Mommy who would ask, since Daddy always knew if she had used soap or not. She stretched again, shutting off the tap and dropping back onto her heels, droplets of water falling from her fingers.

She tugged at the paper towels from the dispenser, taking three to dry her hands with. She was crumpling the towels up and depositing them in the trash bin when she heard a loud crash outside. Cautiously, little Alessandra pushed the restroom door open and stepped out into the hallway. A stiff breeze came in from the door that led to the alleyway outside. Another crash, this one followed by a scream. Screams were bad, Alessandra knew that, she knew they usually meant someone had gotten hurt. Like when Mischa had fallen out of that tree and broken her arm. Alessandra had remembered her sister screaming then, she remembered how it had hurt her ears. Curiosity got the better of the four year old and she edged towards the door, tiny hand closing around the edge as she leaned out into the alley.

It was sight she was not prepared to see, and it horrified and entranced her. A choked little sound caught in her throat as she stared. She had no idea that her sister had walked in on a similar situation, at a younger age than her sister was now. She had no mother to protect her from what she was seeing right now, like her sister had had. Although, it does stand to mention, that she was not seeing one of her parents commit this murder, but a stranger. They were yelling in a language she couldn't understand, the woman's voice very high pitched She was screaming, screaming a whole lot and it hurt Alessandra's ears. It was so much worse than when her sister had screamed. Alessandra couldn't tear her eyes away as she watched the man advance on the woman. He wasn't screaming, but he was scarier than the screaming woman. He had something in his hand, and it was bad. She knew that knives were bad, except the ones Mommy and Daddy used. Knives were bad. 

Shivering in the doorway, her waiting family forgotten in the next few moments, Alessandra watched the man advance on the woman. He grabbed her long braided hair, pushing her back against a Dumpster, she screamed again. The knife came down on the woman over and over again, and Alessandra couldn't look away. She saw the blood spray, bright red even in the grey afternoon after the rains. It left trials on the walls of the alley, and along the Dumpster. Time slowed as the woman's knees gave out and she sank to the wet ground, her back pressed against the Dumpster, blood pouring from her wounds. She was crying now, she didn't seem to have the strength to scream anymore. The hands that had been held in front of her body for defense were slowly sagging to the ground, her body folding over on itself. Alessandra felt something wet on her own face, and brought her own hand to swipe away at the tears that had begun tracking down her cheeks. Her knuckles were white from grasping the door, but still she did not make a sound or move from the doorway.

Alessandra's eyes go wide as she watches the man grab the woman's hair and yank her head back against the Dumpster, bringing her to an almost kneeling position. She is in no position to fight him now as she is suffering severe blood loss. He utters something that even to Alessandra's young ears sounds awful and leans forward to deliver the final blow. The knife is swept across the woman's throat, unleashing a bright arterial spray. He does not step out of the way in time, and blood decorates his jeans. Releasing her hair, he watches the woman slump forward against the pavement. In a final act of desecration, he spits on her crumpled form, then turns and strides out of the alley. He passes right past the door in which Alessandra is standing, watching, and does not spare her a passing glance.

After she is sure he is gone, Alessandra steps from the doorway, into the filthy alley. The pavement is hard beneath her feet as she approaches the body. Taking a deep breath, she kneels on the pavement next to the woman, a tiny pale hand reaching out to pat the woman's cheek. There is no movement and she taps her again. It is odd, the woman doesn't feel alive like Mommy, but she doesn't feel dead like the neighbor's cat when he got hit by a car. Her hand finds the blood, still warm, but no longer being pumped from the wounds. It is slick between her fingers, dark red. She lifts it to her nose, inhaling its scent. It smells like a new penny. She knows not to put things in her mouth unless Mommy or Daddy says its okay, so she does not taste the blood. she reaches with her other hand, and rubs the blood between her palms. It's starting to get sticky, as it dries and reacts to the warmth in her hands. She looks at the woman's lifeless face once more before putting her hands against the pavement to push herself up. Feeling pebbles in her hands, she wipes them across her dress, ignoring the stains it leaves. 

She returns inside, and comes through the door back into the shop just as her mother is coming up. she is about to receive a slap on the hand for taking so long when Daddy stops Mommy. Everyone in the vicinity of the family stares as they look at the little dark haired girl. Her father steps forward, kneeling down and looking in her eyes as he speaks. She nods and whispers back to him. Where one would think that there would be emotional trauma, there is none. She is not crying, she is not scared, she is only quiet. Her eyes seem darker now, and have a slightly far away look to them. Her father takes her hands, looks them over before scooping her up as he stands. He carries her back out to the alley, so he can see for himself what his daughter has witnessed. One of the clerks behind the counter calls the police as a crowd begins to edge towards the back door. By the time the police arrive, the little girl and her family are gone. No one saw them leave, and the police are left with only a story that the witness to this brutal murder was a four year old girl who didn't cry.

*****


	4. Cannibal Karaoke

Don't know whether its because it's the anniversary of Elvis's death, or just because I am obsessively listening to the 'Lilo & Stitch' soundtrack. Most possibly the latter, but anyhoo, Thanks to the King for the inspiration for this chapter. Oh, and in answer to your question Troesnaja, little Mischa saw something in 'Incipit Vita Nuova', more precisely, her mother committing a murder. Han's been a good boy lately. Hmmmm. I may have to change that. Tralala…

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You look like an angel, walk like an angel, talk like an angel, but I got wise, you're the devil in disguise.

-Elvis Presley, 'Devil in Disguise'

The sounds of guitars and the low steady thump of bass bounced off the walls of the old farmhouse, making their way down the upstairs hall and meandering down the stairs. Hannibal Lecter stood at the bottom of the steep stairs, looking up and listening, resisting the urge to shake his head. Or head up there and remove the source of the noise. His daughters had grown up listening to music sanctioned by him, with the exception of Emily's beloved Bare Naked Ladies and _Prairie Home Companion_ CDs. Intelligent, well bred music, more often than not, falling in the classical genre. Now, there was Elvis.

Elvis Presley, being accompanied by a young soprano who lapsed into giggles when she missed a note. Somewhere, most likely in the storage boxes in the basement, his daughter had found her sister's old CD from the Disney movie 'Lilo & Stitch'. It seemed to be a prerequisite that if the movie were based in Hawaii, then it had to have Elvis songs. Currently, he was listening to a rendition of 'Heartbreak Hotel'. Hannibal thought nothing could startle him at this point, and a moment later he was proven wrong.

The volume of the music increased as the bedroom door to Allie's room swung open. She was still singing along as she stepped into the hall, singing as she bounced along with a hairbrush clutched in her hand as a makeshift microphone. There was a thud as she jumped from the hall and onto the staircase, coming into full view of her father.

"…down at the end of Lonely Street, to the Heartbreak Hotel!" she crooned rather loudly as she grabbed the railing with her free hand and dipped backwards. Allie about fell down the stairs as she heard the quiet applause from the bottom of the stairs. She heaved herself upright and stared down the stairs. The look on her face was one almost of a deer caught in the headlights. The stare turned to horror as she realized she had an audience throughout the entire song.

"Lovely, Alessandra, even though I don't quite approve of Elvis."

"You _heard_ me?" the quiet tone of horror of her voice carried in the silent stairway. Her father smiled, nodding. Allie dramatically collapsed on the stairs, one hand gripping the brush, the other the railing. "Oh my god. This is _so_ embarrassing."

"Not quite, Alessandra." she raised her head to peak at him, swiping a stray lock of hair from her face. "You should have seen, or heard rather, some of the things your mother has done." Hannibal winked then and Allie lay back on the stairs, looking at the ceiling. She was muttering something about her life being over as her father chuckled and took his leave. Like mother like daughter, but he sorely hoped that that would be only in these respects and not others.

*****

Starlight sparkles in the dark skies above the farmhouse, peeking through breaks in the moon silvered clouds. Somewhere in the surrounding forest and owls' calls. That, and the sound of waves lapping on the shore, are the only sounds in the cold November night. Allie stood on the end of the small dock, looking at the rowboat that sat in the icy water, bobbing against the pilings. A shiver ran through her partially from the cold, partially from the fact that she would have to return to school in two days. She would have given anything not to go back. She would have done anything to not go back.

Unfortunately, she was under fairly close supervision from her father. It wasn't as if she was going to kill anyone. Not yet, she amended silently. She looked back over her shoulder to the warm light that emanated from the windows of the farmhouse. She knew that if she were to approach the windows of the music room she would hear the Goldberg variations played exceedingly well. Not perfect, perhaps a slight stiffness in the left hand, but played with an engaging understanding of the music. Her father had made them take music lessons, she the piano, Mischa the violin. Both girls had chosen their instruments, both had excelled in their lessons. But Allie felt she would never meet the levels her mother and father had attained.

She hummed the aria to herself as she stood on the dock, looking out at the night blackened lake. Thin ripples of moonbeams reflected carried on the wavelets. It was tempting to hop into that rowboat, row herself to the middle of the lake, and just sit. It was also given to passing thought to let the lake take her into its icy grasp. She was not the first teenage girl to think of suicide, but Allie shoved the thought away with great strength. It was a cowardly way to deal with life's problems. And it hurt her to think of what it would do to her family. Daddy would be devastated.

The cold finally got to her and she walked across the worn planks back to the shore. Her long strides carried her back to the kitchen door and she slipped back into the warm sanctuary once more. As predicted, the sound of the piano filled the house, carrying the notes of her father's song to her ears. Her mother smiled at her as she opened the oven o check on something inside. Allie hung her coat on a peg by the back door and went to the stool that sat at the edge of the kitchen. 

"Hungry?" Emily asked, looking from the hot oven to her red faced daughter. Allie nodded and watched as her mother produced a casserole dish from the oven. The scent of turkey and stuffings wafted through the kitchen and Allie's stomach betrayed how hungry she truly was. Emily laughed and set the dish on the counter before turning away to retrieve a pair of plates from another cabinet.

"What is it?" Allie had hopped off the stool and padded over to the dish. The scent made her mouth water and she inhaled the steam greedily.

"Leftover casserole. Its turkey, stuffings, and gravy from yesterday. Its really good, but," she lowered her voice conspiratorially as she leaned to her daughter. "Your father hates it."

"I don't hate it, Emily, I dislike it." came a voice from the door to the kitchen. Even relaxed and leaning slightly against the doorjamb, Hannibal Lecter looked impressive. 

"Why?" asked Allie as she grabbed a fork from the drawer and took a bite of the concoction that her mother set on a plate before her. "Its good." she pointed at the glob with her fork.

"Turkey is not meant to made into a congealed mass with the dressing and gravy, Alessandra." he had come over to join his wife and daughter at the counter and now glared at the forkful his wife was offering him. 

"Just try it, Hannibal. I've refrained from making it for years. Hell, I've refrained from making any casserole for years." she rolled her eyes at the ceiling and offered the forkful to him once more. A grimace settled onto his face as Emily tried the airplane trick. 

"Emily, that trick didn't work on Mischa, nor will it work on me."

Allie looked curiously at her parents as her mother teetered in the edge of falling into a fit of giggles.

"Oh god, Hannibal was trying to feed Mischa one day and she refused to eat anything but peaches. He tried everything, including the airplane trick. Finally, I suggested he eat it first to show Misch how good it was. Unfortunately, it wasn't that good. You should have seen the face your father made, Allie."

"If I eat this concoction, dear Emily, Alessandra _will_ see the face I made."

Allie giggled and took another bite of the casserole. "Come on, Daddy, try it. It can't be _that_ bad, considering _other _things you've eaten." she took another forkful and looked at her mother before she continued, "And it's better than airline food."

Hannibal sighed and shook his head before looking from daughter to wife to fork to wife again. He took the proffered fork in his hand and put the casserole into his mouth.

"You have to swallow it, too, Han." Emily reminded him as he stood there, mouth full, fork in hand. There was a mild glare from the head of the household before he complied with Emily's instruction.

"How is it?" asked Allie, clearly enjoying her father's discomfiture. 

"Wonderful." he replied, deadpan, before reaching for a glass of wine Emily had on the counter.

"Wimp." Allie snorted as she continued eating. Emily couldn't resist the giggles anymore and gave into them at the thought of anyone calling Hannibal Lecter a wimp. Hannibal, for his part, merely raised an eyebrow at his daughter.

"Allie, I believe your father's been called many things, but wimp, as far as I know, has never been one of them." Em managed between giggles. Allie grinned and spooned another heap of the casserole onto her plate.

"This is nice." she informed her parents as she continued eating. Both looked quizzically at her, and she swallowed before adding to her comment. "Its almost like we're a normal family."

Emily drew a sharp breath and looked to her husband, whose gaze was still on his daughter. Silence hung on the kitchen for a few more moments before Allie finished her meal and took the plate to the sink. She ran the water and the disposal and then dried her hands as she turned back to her parents. 

"Thanks for the casserole, Mom. It's late and I'm going to bed." she came over and pecked her mother on the cheek, hugging her before releasing her and continuing to carry out the same motions with her father. "G'night." and she was gone from the kitchen, leaving her parents alone. Neither spoke until they heard her door close upstairs.

"A normal family?" Emily asked, grabbing her plate and depositing it in the sink.

"Admittedly, Emily, we are far from the American dream." Hannibal replied, handing her the casserole dish gingerly.

Emily shook her head as she took the dish to the fridge. "Ever since she came home she's been acting strange. I don't know whether it's just a teenage phase or something more serious."

Hannibal paused inwardly for a moment, debating telling his wife of his suspicions. Of his daughter's problems at school, and what he feared she might do. No, for now it was best if Emily didn't know. His wife had the potential to be very volatile, and he wasn't sure how she'd react. He came over to her, brushing a loose strand out of her face and placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Its nothing, I'm sure. She's probably anxious about finals when she returns. Don't worry yourself over it, dear Emily."

Emily nodded as she watched her husband's eyes. "You'd tell me if you knew something, wouldn't you Hannibal?"

There wasn't a moments pause as he replied, "Of course, Emily."

*****


	5. Intentions of the Sister

Ooooh, new chapter. Perhaps lack of sleep is good inspiration for me. As long as I don't fall asleep at the… Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Okay, better now. I have to say 'Thank you' or something to Kurt since I stole one of his lines. Did I say 'stole'? I meant borrowed, yeah, borrowed. I couldn't resist it, oh Grand High Poobah. Okey dokey then, enough prattle, shall we get on with the tale before I actually DO fall asleep at the keyboard?

**************************************************************************************

The notes became crystal and separated themselves, but remained whole unto themselves. The room swarmed with them as they tumbled forth from the piano and the gentle coaxing of the hands at the keys. Dark head caught in the circle of lamplight shimmering like pelt with all its gleam. It bows and nods in time with the music, eyes closed against the low light of the room. Lithe fingers fly over the keys, a song played with understanding and depth. Not perfectly, but with an engaging hand. Lost in the crystal swarm, unheeding of the world encapsulating the music room. It is as if one has stepped briefly from the normal path we trod and stumbled upon a different world altogether.

All at once, with a great lack of ceremony, the music stops. The crystalline swarm crashes soundlessly to the floor, ceasing its flight abruptly. The pianist looks up, eyes squeezing further against the sights that fill the reality that awaits. Slowly, a single tear marks a trail down one pale cheek, completely ignored as it slides across pale ivory.

There is something truly animal in those eyes when they open. Something dark and deep, almost lovely as it lies in its keep. But then the veil is drawn across it again, and the heathen glow subsides from those dark pupils. An almost watery blue-grey surrounds the depthless black, stark comparison but sitting easily with the porcelain complexion and delicate features. Hands slid from the keyboard and into a lap, neatly folding themselves as their master sits patiently.

Quiet applause ripples through the small room. She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to face the woman next to her. 

"Beautiful, Allie. I've never heard it played with such emotion before." the teacher is smiling and nodding, but her voice betrays no emotion. Allie would prefer to see tears in her eyes as there were in hers, but Mrs. Applegate was not a woman prone to being easily moved. There were times when playing to a rock would garner more of a reaction. Allie wishes to sit fro another few moments, not quite trusting her legs to hold her, but Mrs. Applegate is applying gentle pressure to her shoulder, urging her to move so the assembled can hear the next offering.

Allie rises regretfully, bows slightly to the audience and steps to the side of the small stage, clutching her arms around her. Later she would be informed by Mrs. Applegate that it was amazing that Allie could play so well with her finger still in that splint. As Allie steps down from the stage she catches a nasty glare from the other side. Dorothy Haws is waiting in the wings, back behind the black velvet curtain, awaiting her chance to play. Something in her look causes Allie to hug herself tighter as she walks from the room. Sunlight and a stiff breeze greet her as she emerges into the commons area.

She barely has two seconds before another hand is grasping her shoulder. Not in a mood to be trifled with, she spins round on her visitor, locking one pale, slim hand around the offending wrist.

"Allie! It's only me!" Alessandra blinked once as she recognized her sister and released her wrist. "That hurt, you know." Mischa rubbed at her wrist, looking at the red marks left there.

"I know." Allie replied quietly, looking away across the quiet campus. It was a Saturday, and most girls were in the city, shopping, or whatever it was they did together. She didn't know about that, but the thought f shopping reminded her that she needed to go out and start looking for Christmas presents.

"What's gotten into you lately? You've been weird since you flew home for Thanksgiving." Allie had begun walking as her sister spoke, and Mischa fell easily into step beside her. The breeze tugged at Mischa's long blonde locks, whipping a few loose strands across her face. Allie looked over at her sister, who stared back at her with deep blue eyes, courtesy of contact lenses. It was that word again, one of the many she heard all too often.

"Don't call me weird, Misch."

Her older sister rolled her eyes but didn't say anything else. Truthfully, Mischa did find her sister odd, but, she supposed, she was a little odd as well. As the daughters of serial killers, they were quite entitled to being odd. They were halfway across the commons, headed back to Allie's lonely dorm when Allie stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Mischa as if she had become the Devil incarnate. Mischa stood open mouthed as Allie reached out to touch the chain around her neck. The strange hand fingered the chain and the pendant that hung from it.

"When did you get that?" the tone was flat, and Allie's eyes were fixed on the jewelry.

"Eric's mom gave it to me at Thanksgiving. She said I deserved it for being so special to Eric."

"It's a cross." Allie held it in the sunlight, watching the effect of the light on the amethyst that marked the center of it, and the green and purple grape leaves that made up the body of the cross.

"Well, yeah."

Allie shook her head and let the pendant fall back to Mischa's chest after a long final stare. She took a step back and looked around the commons before speaking to her sister again.

"Dad won't like it."

Allie began walking again and Mischa huffed grumpily as she followed her sister. "Dad can't decide who I am for me anymore. I've found my faith, Allie, and I don't mind letting people know it."

Allie had wrapped her arms around herself again and ducked her head. Her voice, even though it was directed to the ground now and much quieter, was still easily heard.

"Faith in what, Misch? A gingerbread god?" Allie found it rather amusing that her sister believed that her God had transferred himself into the bread and wine of the Eucharist. 

"Allie, that's mean. You just haven't had any experience with faith. Once you feel it, once you experience God…"

"Mischa, you can believe your God is all well and good, all rainbows and rose gardens, but I know better, okay? Don't try to push it on me." Allie picked up her pace as they neared the building that housed her dorm. She had the room all to herself, partially since she had requested it that way, partially since no one else would room with her.

"I'm not trying to push it on you!" Mischa protested.

"Typhoid and swans, Mischa. It all comes from the same place. Faith makes you think otherwise." 

"Dammit, Allie! Don't start quoting Dad in order to make your point to me."

Allie looked back over her shoulder at Mischa, her eyes were hard and cold, and something lurked below the surface. "Well, at least Daddy doesn't worship a gingerbread god."  
Mischa had had enough and snapped, making a grab for her sister. "No, Allie, our father doesn't worship any God, and you know why?! Its because he's fucking insane!" she caught her rising pitch and instantly looked around to see if anyone had overheard her. There was no one on the commons excepting the pigeons that loitered nearby. Allie glared at her sister as she shoved her keycard into the door lock and tugged at the handle.

"Daddy's not insane."

Allie led the way into the building, down the hall to the elevators. Mischa smiled at the other girl who joined them in the elevator, Allie stood back in the corner, looking at her hands and ignoring both of them. Mischa shrugged good-naturedly as the girl hurried to get off on the third floor. They rode to the fourth and Allie stepped from her corner and quickly off the elevator. The sister's stayed silent until they were in Allie's suite, and then Allie turned on Mischa.

"Don't you ever say Daddy's insane. You hear me, Mischa?"

Mischa refused to be intimidated by someone five years younger than herself and looked her sister in the eye as she responded. "He's insane. He's a sociopath, Allie."

"He was found insane by the courts, Misch. He never plead insanity."

"Is that distinction important to you, Allie?"

"Very."

Mischa sighed and ran a hand back through the strands that had worked their way loose from her ponytail and had fallen to frame her face. "Allie, you have to grow up and realize what our parents are. Both are serial killers, Mom was an abused child who as an adult tried to kill Dad. Dad is an escaped felon who resides on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List, and only God knows how many people he's actually killed. We're not normal."

Allie lost it then, and lashed out at her sister. "Even you! Of all the people I would have expected to even remotely understand, and you don't! You tell me I'm weird, that I'm not normal. Thank you for re-enforcing the thoughts in my head! I know what our parents are, I know what they've done, and I accept it." She turned away at that point, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. The monster wormed its way through her soul at that point and she smiled slowly and wickedly at the reflections in the looking glass. There was a shock of fear that flashed across Mischa's face as she saw the remarkable likeness that was watching her in the mirror. Allie turned then to face her sister, still smiling. The small white teeth appeared between the red lips as the smile broadened.

"And maybe I'll be like them too, Mischa."

Mischa shivered, staring at her sister and rooted in place by fear. Now she knew how people who had faced her father felt. As soon as the moment had arrived, it was gone. Allie had turned away again, removing the French braid that held her hair back from her face, humming to herself as she did so. She smiled, much differently this time, as she turned around to face her sister.

"Want to go get some Dim Sum? My treat, if you let me drive." her hands were tangled in her hair as she tugged her hair into a ponytail. Mischa had to shake her head to think clearly once more. 

"Uh, sure." 

"Cool. Let me get changed and we'll go."

"Okay, Allie." she watched her disappear into the library off the little living room and heard her start humming again. It wasn't until they were in the car that Mischa identified her sister's song. Elvis Presley's 'The Devil in Disguise'. Mischa wondered if she had chosen it purposely.

*****


	6. Comunion

Young Alessandra looked at herself in the mirror, her reflection looking back at her. A white veil floated over her dark hair, farming her light and delicate features. The white dress with the lace at the neckline and on the hem falls just below her knees. The full skirt itches from the crinoline and the snow white tights also itch on her legs. The shiny, white patent leather shoes are tight on her feet, but make a nice clicking sound as she walks down the hardwood in the hallway outside her room. There is a matching patent white purse sitting on the table, next to a small vase of rose buds. Carefully, she opened the clasp on the purse and withdraws a pair of snowy white gloves from inside. The gloves are tugged onto her hands, and the purse closed once again. She continues down the stairs.

Her mother and sister await her arrival in the kitchen, Emily cooing over Allie, while Mischa grumbles something about being forced to go to church instead of going ice skating. Emily hushes the older daughter and laments over how she cannot take pictures of Allie outside. The forecast had promised sunshine, but now grey clouds hung over the fog, and a cold wind pushed through the trees. Little Allie seems not to mind not being hustled outside to have her pictures taken. She was enjoying this day for the sake of dressing up, not for what it was. Watching over the spectacle in the kitchen is a figure in the doorway from the music room, dark as he stands in the shadows. The ceremony of this day means little to him as well.

Alessandra is escorted into the church by her family: mother Amelia, father Antonio, and sister Michelle. She is entranced by the sense of the place, by the colors and the candles. By the combination of shadows and light. By the great stained glass of reds and ambers that looks so much like blood and fire with the dark skies behind it. She is ushered into a room with twenty other frightened and nervous girls and boys. They all look like lambs being led to the slaughter, instead of being led to salvation. Allie peers out the door as their catechism teacher reminds them on what they should do, watching as the altar servers, the priest, the deacon, and others file into the church. A tap on her shoulder makes her turn around and she is handed a candle. A smiling adult lights it from another candle before she turns away to repeat the gesture with another child. Allie watches the flame burn as the wax turns translucent and beads at the top. The beads slowly roll down the sides of the candle, and the first reaches her skin.

Allie watches the hot wax intently as it falls on the soft skin of her hand. It was very, very hot and it hurt, but only a little. Behind her another girl cried out as the hot wax hits her hands and the catechism teachers flock to her. Moments later little paper Dixie cups are passed out to the nervous children, holes punched in the bottom so they can be slipped over the candle and shield the small hands from hot wax. When they enter the church, finally, the adults will notice that Allie is the only child without a cup on her candle, and there are traces of white wax that has cooled in the palm of the hand cupped beneath the candle. 

Allie walks in line with the other little children, alternating boy girl, boy girl as they proceed down the middle aisle. She is not supposed to look around but her eyes dart about the cavernous interior trying to find her parents and sister. They are back in the shadows and she catches her fathers gaze. He smiles and so does she before averting her eyes once again to the stained glass above the altar. Blood and fire, in what was to be a holy and peaceful place.

The mass passes by with little notice from little Allie, as she rises, sits, and kneels as directed. At one point she has taken a great interest in the lace of her gloves and almost misses a cue to rise again. Soon, the catechism teachers are back, standing in the aisle next to the pews the children were seated in, smiling benevolently at them while their eyes warned them to behave. They filed out slowly, each looking the picture of innocence in their pale clothes. The pianist is playing a tune familiar to Allie, one she has heard a number of times at home. Pachabel's Cannon in D. The words the rest of the congregation sings are not familiar, but she hums the tune as she walks down the aisle. Step, pause, step. Step, pause, step. She reaches the priest and he smiles kindly at her.

"The body of Christ." A white wafer is extended out to her and she responds properly.

"Amen." and the wafer is placed safely in her cupped hands, right under left. stepping aside and crossing herself, she places the wafer in her mouth and proceeds to the man with the chalice. He holds this up to her and she can see the rich ruby wine glow in the dim light, giving it the color of blood.

"The blood of Christ."

"Amen." she intones again as the chalice is lowered to her height and she sips from it, feeling the liquid roll over her tongue. It is not strong, but is enough to surprise the eight year old. She folds her ands in front of her and continues down the aisle, back to her seat in the pew where she kneels once more. The pianist is still playing the Pachabel and the people are still singing the unfamiliar words. While Allie is supposed to be reflecting on the Eucharist, her eyes instead drift back to the stained glass and she wonders about something else.

The Rinaldi's go to a small restaurant to lunch and celebrate Allie's special occasion. She adores the attention she receives in her tidy white dress with the itchy crinoline, and sits proudly at the table next to her father. She doesn't remark much on the day's events, but smiles slightly at her father when he speaks to her. It is not unusual, for Allie is quite a quiet child, and her father smiles in return. Her mother and her sister talk animatedly about something which is of no interest to Allie, and she basks in her father's company.

Hours later, as Allie finally removes the white dress, and stockings, and patent leather shoes, and white gloves; all of which are laid neatly on her bed, ready for mother to put away. She changes into a pair of khakis and a red tee-shirt, and pulls on a pair of red sock. A dark burgundy actually for both the socks and shirt, a color that reminds her of the wine and of the question in the back of her mind. She wanders down the hall where her father has his office. The house is quiet with Emily and Mischa gone, leaving Allie, Hannibal, and the cat, Boots, alone here. Boots is following her, the soft rumble of her purr interspersed by a meow as Allie knocks on the door to her father's study.

"Come in." come a quiet voice, one with a slightly metallic rasp to it. Allie pushes the door open and steps into the room, immediately pausing and letting the scent of it fill her. Leather and books, wood polish, and a touch of lavender and vanilla. Those were the smells she would forever associate with her father. As Boots also comes into the room she turns and closes the door behind her, then turns once more to gravely face her father.

"Daddy, I have a question for you. If I may." she adds at the end, watching out of the corner of her eye as Boots curls into an armchair, purring contentedly.

Hannibal smiles gently, something that to many would look odd on a face they were accustomed to seeing in asylum photos. Allie has only recently learned that her father has killed people, and that he is a cannibal, but it doesn't mean much to her at this age. She does know what a cannibal is though, that's someone who eats other people, and it is the subject that s troubling her at the moment. Hannibal moves his chair back from the desk and sets his pen aside, inviting his younger daughter to come sit in his lap. When she is settled comfortably he turns to the subject at hand.

"Now, Alessandra, you wanted to ask me something?"

"Yes, Daddy." she took a deep breath and looked up into his maroon eyes. She wasn't supposed to tell anyone what color his eyes really were, since he wore blue contacts when they went out of the house, like this morning. Mommy did too, but Allie didn't really know why, but she did understand what she was to do and what she was not to do. "Today at church, when I took Communion," she said the word slowly and her father nodded, "Well, Father said 'The body of Christ' as he handed me the wafer." which didn't taste very good, she wanted to add. "Does that mean that Catholics are cannibals?"

He blinked once, and a smile crept across his face as he considered his daughters question. Very clever of his little girl to notice that. Mischa hadn't said anything about that when she had gone through her first communion. It wasn't his idea that the girls should experience the rites of passage in the Catholic Church, but his sweet Emily still had a lingering attachment to the institution. It seemed at times she was either submitting herself to penance for her sins or just couldn't bear actually parting with the Church. He shook his head at Allie, who was looking quizzically at him.

"No, Alessandra, it does not mean Catholics are cannibals."

"So they're not like you."

"Not in the least."

She considered this for a moment. "Oh." there was a moment of silence, and Hannibal waited, knowing she wanted to ask or say something more. "They don't think of themselves as cannibals, do they?"

Surely they had explained this in Catechism, but Allie was never satisfied with the simplified answers adults tended to give children. She was a very bright child, and she was one that one was always level with. One did not lie to Alessandra Nicolette. 

"No, dear, they don't."

"Oh." she thought for another moment, and her father watched as her head titled to the side and the blue-grey eyes darkened. "In catechism they tell us God is all good, tat he doesn't do bad things. But when something bad happens they say it was an act of god. Why, daddy?"

He hadn't been prepared for this turn in the conversation, and he was surprised that Allie had made such an observation. There was no simple answer for this question but he might be able to satisfy her with the answer he had given Clarice so long ago. "It all comes from the same place, Alessandra. Both the good and the bad. He gives and he takes at his will." he paused and looked into her eyes. "You are right to question the blind acceptance of faith."

"But mommy and Mischa do. Accept, I mean."

Hannibal nodded, "Some people need something to believe in, little Allie. Their life will not be the same if they do not have something to believe in. A crutch of sorts, so they have an explanation for the things that happen."

She nodded solemnly, and looked away for a moment at the window and then at Boots, who was washing one white paw. She gave her father a hug and a peck on the cheek before she slid down form the chair. "Thank you, Daddy." she said gravely.

"You are quite welcome." he replied just as gravely. He watched as she went over and scooped Boots from the chair, carrying the black and white cat to the door with her. As she placed a hand on the doorknob she looked back at him.

"Yes?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"The stained glass in the church, above the altar, Daddy. Its like you said, it all comes form the same place. The church is so peaceful and nice, but the glass is all red and amber and yellow. It looks like fire and blood." she shrugged and opened the door, taking Boots into the hall and the shutting it carefully behind her. He heard the thump of the cat leaping to the floor and then his daughters footsteps as she trotted down the stairs. How different his little Allie was. How strange of her to notice these things. Slowly he retrieved his pen from the desk and looked back down at the file he had been reading. He had thought Mischa would take after him, she certainly had when she was a little girl, but now Allie was proving to e the true heir to the name of 'Lecter'. 

*****

It didn't occur to him that day that his daughter might grow into something completely different form the sweet little girl she had been all her life. She had been prim and proper all her life, she was the little girl in the pink dresses in the pictures, with her hair always braided back neatly or laying in curls around her pale face. It should have struck him that she would be different, and now he wondered why he hadn't caught it before. IN the bed next to him his wife stirs and she snuggles closer to him, one arm coming over his chest. He stroked her arm as he lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling. Perhaps it would be easier to find answers with Emily back at school for a month. But then Christmas would come, and he would have to confront her about it. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, willing himself to leave the subject behind and rest. He hadn't slept in days, his mind turning the image of his daughter's smile in the carriage house over and over in his mind. Her admittance that something was bothering her. Her assurance that she wouldn't do anything extreme.

That was what made him take pause, her assurance. Emily had given him her assurance once, and that had kept her from nothing short of trying to kill him. And now, now his own daughter was becoming something _Other._


End file.
